


sauté

by orchestra



Series: newfoundland [2]
Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: M/M, ive got nothing else for this guys its just cotton candy fluff still without fanny packs but SOON, let the calcifer of this tender love burn forevermore!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-16 06:49:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19641739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchestra/pseuds/orchestra
Summary: in which sorey thinks, fuck allicin





	sauté

what doesn’t kill you, sorey thinks as the third wave hits and he’s keeling over, a little lagged, as if none of this, the agony webbing through his left eye, is of his own accord, which it really isn’t, because who in his right mind would agree to suffering of this degree, will inevitably leave you so vulnerable you’re left wishing the deed had been done and finished. that, he deems, is mercy.

he further laments because the concourse of the past two hours was indeed the work of another of his personal adages. if you’re thinking, like, to leave no stone unturned, or no pain, no gain, no, it was definitely stupider than that. he swipes at his eye and, oh, fucking, he’s so dumb. he feels, rather than sees because he’s been rendered practically blind, the soft patter of a tear on his knee.

the hilt slips through his sweaty grip, and his elbow meets an uncertain surface. there’s an unbearable heat to his right, and a whistling so pitched, sorey is convinced it’s the hungry suck of hell’s vortex on the crumpled tail of his soul. someone some time ago had warned him that hubris would be the very force over the precipice, and sorey feels within the jagged miasma a sensation of falling. or maybe he actually is falling. perhaps he has already fallen, plummeted, and he is in hell, and this pulsing heat is now the catacomb of his asinine being. this is it, he pens his mental odyssey. the end, and yet there is so much to do, so much to say, so much to love, but this is how he goes, not with a bang but with the saddest of

“i told you to call me when you start on the onions.”

o, rejoice, man! let those tears fall ever faster on your barren earth, for you are saved!

there’s a laugh and sorey is convinced it’s the heralding of the most beautiful angel in the universe.

“at your service.”

“i’m dying, mikleo.”

“i can very clearly see that. you, on the other hand.”

and suddenly there is the softest and coolest of fingers resting on his cheek. the entirety of his weight shifts to the node of their touch, eagerly seeking, and mikleo yelps as sorey falls to the kitchen floor, nose first. sure, mikleo’s pretty decent at bussing five plates and a stack of cups on one arm, but he definitely wasn’t trained nor paid enough to handle a fragile, sopping mess of an idiot he tenderly calls his best friend. the last bit isn’t said aloud, so sorey offers to fill the gap.

“i was doing well,” comes the muffled dejection, and mikleo makes one of those you sure about that? noises that is so, so cute but tramples heavily on the remains of sorey’s confidence. “really, i got the pasta down.”

another noncommittal noise, and then the tick-tick-tickering of a gaslight sparking back to life. a weird laugh as sorey assumes mikleo finally lays his eyes on the muddled mess of onions.

“you definitely got the pasta, hm,” mikleo starts, rattles something, then starts thumping pretty vigorously, “down somewhere there.” sorey moans feebly. “hey, the mushrooms look great.”

“dezel made it look so easy.”

there’s a definite smile when mikleo replies, “that’s because he knows what he’s doing.”

you’ll never know unless you try? no, that wasn’t it either. sorey gets up with a creaky groan and washes his hands, wonders how long he’ll have to suffer from the odor of allium now. “i’m sorry.” if he sounds pouty and dejected, it’s because he most certainly is, because tonight was his opportunity to demonstrate his capabilities of preparing for and not effectively mucking up an evening that which holds much in its pink clouds and summer breeze. sorey leans toward the window and his stomach sinks with the setting sun. it looks to be rushing home for a dinner meal with the stars of its life. sorey chances a glance at mikleo, whose skin is a mildly concerning pink in contrast with the shirt stained with sweat and dirt and likely some great unearthed truths that sorey sorely looks forward to hearing about. mikleo even had the foresight to don an apron. heaven and hell, sorey thinks.

“don’t be sorry.” they’re soft over the mindless scraping of the spoon. “onions, please?” with a partially recovered vision and fumbling fingers, sorey dumps the onions into the pan. his new arch nemesis, he thinks with a sniff. “and grab yourself some bandages.”

in the time it takes for sorey to make work on the corked wine, mikleo has finished plating and setting two plates of spaghetti, immaculately spruced with basil, next to an impressive spread of bread, tossed salad, and a mountainous medley of stir-fried vegetables, and looks to be just about ready dig in when sorey exclaims, hey! he’s not gonna let himself mess up the last bit of their night, which is invariably a toast.

mikleo laughs, wipes some wine from his bottom lip. “a toast, to?”

sorey smiles for what he feels is the first time since the start of this damn dinner debacle. what a loaded question. he is suddenly so acutely aware that this is an otherwise perfect night, thanks to a certain someone on so many scaffoldings, and no, this is not hell. from where he sits, he can see the moon now rousing, yawning with its mouth open crater-wide, spilling itself over two steady hands, a shoulder, a tilted head of silver, blending beautifully—or rather, could it be the other way around? let’s keep this brief, he thinks resolutely. (because actions speak louder? almost there.)

“to,” sorey begins, “a pretty wonderful year of adventures together.”

mikleo hums. “so far.” he raises a glass and sorey follows suit. his mouth is so dry as he watches mikleo take a bite here and there. mikleo smiles. “so good.”

ah, sorey crumbles. “really?”

“really, truly.” mikleo laughs. “i love you.” he then resembles the very spaghetti he shoves into his mouth to effectively stop himself from saying more ghastly sentimental thoughts, and sorey is convinced he’s in heaven. “here i was just hoping you wouldn’t burn the kitchen down. you’ve surpassed yourself, sorey. how’d you do it?”

sorey sets his fork down and reaches over to catch the moonlight on mikleo’s ear, and he’ll apologize for his garlic fingers later.

“well, with love, anything is possible." 

**Author's Note:**

> ok so admittedly i have not yet finished zestiria bc i got vespy def. edition and im makin like a snail on it and then i suddenly got swept in once more by the massive tidal wave that is bts but i mean much to my pleasure the bts ao3 crowd is fucking wild and sparked a desire in me to write again, of course(?), about my two fav protags. still without their fanny packs, but implied archaeology brushes somewhere. there is no chronology to this mess. maybe i should make them time traveling archaeologists. oh! my god! is there irony in that?  
> pardon me, im bored. thank u as always.


End file.
